


Wring Me Out So Sweet and Hard

by torrential



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Cock Rings, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrential/pseuds/torrential
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you want this,” the man says mildly, implacably. “We’re only giving you what you asked for... You think you don’t deserve good things so any pleasure must be forced upon you and tempered with pain. This is exactly what you want.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wring Me Out So Sweet and Hard

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=4501448#cmt4501448) prompt on the Daredevil Kink Meme.

He’s coming dry by now and it hurts, it hurts, but he can’t help himself as his body bucks and strains against the chafe of the ropes without his volition. The vibrating plug in his ass is nestled right against his prostate and there is come all over his thighs and belly and it just won’t stop, he can’t make himself stop, he’s coming and coming and coming. Pleasure and pain wrack his senses, exhaustion setting his muscles to twitching, but his orgasm demands yet more of his body and he wails. His own spasms drive the plug deeper into him, against him, and it’s _still going_ , driving him through satiation and out the other side into more arousal. The combination is enough to make him writhe, beg for them to turn it off, _turn it off_ , he’ll _die_ \--

“Now there’s a pretty picture.”

Matt arches in the chair, grinding his ass against the seat damp with lubrication as if that will help, somehow muffle the sensation of the plug stroking him relentlessly inside. “Please,” he gasps, uncaring of the tears trailing down his flushed face. “I can’t, I can’t I can’t I can’t, no more, I can’t--!”

“You can and you will, darling,” the voice in charge assures him. “There’s no way we’ve hit your limit yet. And isn’t this what you wanted?”

No, Matt wants to sob. Not this, I didn’t want this. I wanted... I wanted...

But he can’t say what he wanted, hadn’t known even as he walked into the club. Pain, maybe. What he couldn’t get as Daredevil but everything that he deserved. And they’d taken him to this back room and promised to give him everything he asked for so he’d submitted to the plug and the ropes and the chair. And for awhile it was good, it was great, being toyed with, pleasure taken out of his hands, out of his control. Except then it didn’t _stop_.

“One more time, sweetheart, just one more, you can do that for me...”

Mouth between his legs, or a hand on his dick, kisses dropped on his gasping mouth. One more, and one more, and one more, there’s always one more until his head’s spinning and his body’s afire and they still won’t listen to him, won’t let him go.

He’d have passed out already except for the smelling salts.

“Let’s give him a minute,” the man in charge says now, and he could cry in relief. “The star of the show looks like it needs a break.” The plug buried in him falls still with a dying whine but before he can even process the sudden cessation of sensation, contrary to the idea of allowing him any rest, a hand grabs his oversensitive cock for emphasis. Matt jerks, cries out. He can’t, he can’t, not again, not so soon--

“Relax, sweetheart. We won’t make you come again unless you want to.”

There are knowing chuckles all around as the hand leaves his cock and he slumps against his bonds. Still, his whirling, muddled thoughts won’t allow him to take advantage of the break: even though what the man said is exactly what Matt wanted to hear, why does it sound so ominous?

Then the hand is back, lifting his balls and sliding something around the base of his soft shaft. Matt gasps, whines, alarm a tight bubble in his throat. They said they wouldn’t--! But the thing is snapped efficiently into place and the hand leaves him with no more than an affectionate pat on his thigh. What--? Dimly he maps the new pressure encircling him, can’t imagine what it could be.

“It’s a good color on you. A good look, too.” Another pat, this one to his other thigh, before the touch ventures inward and a finger circles the object, questing behind the heavy weight of his balls. “There’s really something about a nice cock ring on a man.”

A... what? He’s only academically familiar with the concept. He knows what one’s supposed to do but why use it now when all of their efforts thus far have been to force him unwillingly to orgasm as opposed to delaying it?

He doesn’t get a chance to ask and he’s not sure he’d get an answer anyway as more slick is poured over him, adding to the come staining his cock. It drips between his thighs and puddles on the chair and runs down his legs to soak into the ropes around his ankles, but not enough to allow him to slip free. Gentle fingers slide between his legs, ease out the plug. Even the withdrawal against his passage is too much, sparking harshly against his nerves and wringing a whimper from his lips. “We won’t need this anymore, sweetheart. Say goodbye to your little friend.”

Though it’s more due to sheer lack of energy, Matt doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. They’ve left him ungagged but the early litany of threats and swearing is a distant memory. Now all that falls from his panting mouth are garbled pleas and shattered moans which amuse his captors to no end.

(And as if he has any dignity remaining, getting his brains fucked out while tied to a chair as men watch and laugh and lick their lips.)

They let him wind down into tired silence. Someone eventually tips his face up, kisses his slack mouth. Blunt fingers stroke his face, trace the shell of his ear, trickle down his throat and collarbones. He flinches as they wrap about his Adam’s apple, just the slightest hint of pressure, of claiming, proving their control. “Shh, love, I’ve got you. Good boy.”

Swallowing hard, Matt forces himself to stillness. He earns an approving hum before the hand moves down the center of his chest, lingering on a bruise he earned from a warehouse scuffle the night before. He braces himself for pain but no pressure is applied, the hand moving on to skim over his spattered stomach.

Soon he’s shivering under the careful exploration, in spite of looming exhaustion and prickling wariness. There’s something different now. Every time before he’s been _driven_ to orgasm, hard and fast and relentless. This touch is almost soothing, slow and deliberate as if they’re planning on taking their time with him this round. Like a lover might. Matt’s not sure he likes the change. On one hand, it allows his body desperately-needed time to recover. On the other, he no longer knows what they have planned and that makes him nervous.

But there is no way he can become erect again. None. Not for the next week, the next _month_. He shakes in horror, shies away as the heat of an incoming touch flickers over his body. “Shh, darling,” the man in charge says. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy this.”

Matt is left with rough fingers flicking his nipples, his reaction to which is entertaining enough that the man spends a few minutes toying with them relentlessly even as he tries to twist away. “N-no, don’t--”

“But you want this,” the man says mildly, implacably. “We’re only giving you what you asked for.” There’s a hand on him now, pumping him with enthusiasm, and the worst part of it is that it’s _good_. Gorgeous filthy twist on the upstroke, thumb circling the crown and rubbing expertly just under the slowly weeping head -- Matt lets his head fall back, mouth dropping open in a desperate whine. “You think you don’t deserve good things so any pleasure must be forced upon you and tempered with pain. This is exactly what you want.”

That’s not true. That’s not... his hips hitch in spite of himself and he moans in despair and an impossibly burgeoning arousal.

Slowly, inescapably, they work his fraught body up again. It’s too bad for him that they had the foresight to put a cock ring on him. Otherwise the sensitivity of his body would have ended their fun long before they were ready to show any mercy because Matt’s never been able to hold out from coming. A careless brush or whisper or even a tug on his hair at the wrong time can be enough to utterly undo him, and while he’s developed more endurance over the years, it’s never a sure thing. And this, this, designed specifically to drive him to the edge... the cock ring is extending his endurance but even with it on, he can feel himself swelling, straining, driven beyond his limits and toward the precipice. Like the swing of a pendulum, abhorrence of coming turns into the desire to come.

And the men notice. “Want something, darling?” the man in charge purrs. A worthless question: Matt has been moaning what he wants for the past five minutes, broken and devastated, his body turned against him. When did his entreaties to stop become begging for more? Sure hands know just how far to take him, how to dangle orgasm in front of him like Tantalus and his hanging fruit. He’s reaching, he’s striving, hips bucking against empty air for the one last bit of friction that will set him free.

A deceptively calming hand strokes his hair. “Shh, sweetheart, there’s a good boy. Nice and easy. All you have to do is ask nicely.”

Ask...? He’s been asking for things since this began -- _more, yes, good_ to _stop, please, no_ and back to _fuck, god, let me_ \-- and only rarely they’ve indulged him. Forcing him to marshal his thoughts into coherency now is _cruel_. It’d be kinder to just set him on fire.

But Matt tries, oh god he tries. Licks his lips, draws in a juddering breath that doesn’t seem sufficient to inflate his lungs and allow him to speak, sucks in another and says, “Please.” He says, “Please, I want to come, let me come.” He says, “I’ll do anything, just let me come.”

“Mm...” Oh, that thoughtful hum doesn’t bode anything well for him, Matt can feel it. He cries out in desperation when the man says, smugly, “No.”

And the hands leave him. All of them, from his dick and his torso and his ass. Matt wails, writhes, frots against nothing in a frenzied attempt to overcome the lack of stimuli, climb that one last inch toward completion. Ultimately futile. He sags back into the chair after a fruitless minute, chest heaving, body hating the idea of it and yet frantic beyond words to come.

“Jesus Christ,” someone breathes. “How long can we keep him like this?”

“A good question. Care to find out?”

 _Mary, mother of God_.

They bring Matt to the edge again and again, until he’s voiceless from screaming, until his entire body seizes at the simplest touch. It hurts so bad, it feels so good. His entire body refocuses on his aching cock, senses scrambled, the passage of time meaningless. He can’t think, there’s no past or future, only the here and now of his body screaming for climax, for liberation from this hell, for entrance to heaven.

Once more the touches recede, leaving him cracking around the edges, shaking with the force of his need. Save for one. A mouth presses against his while tender, loving fingers linger over the snaps of the cock ring. “Good boy, Matt,” the man whispers. “Good boy. Come for me, now, I’ve got you, you can come now.”

A flick of fingers and the ring opens.

He comes and he comes and he _comes_.

* * *

When he comes around, the room is echoingly silent where before there was presence. He swallows, shifts, mouths a dry name.

“Hey, Matt.” In stark contrast to earlier, Foggy’s voice is gentle and concerned. “How do you feel?”

Matt slurs something about _fucked out_. Foggy huffs a laugh. “No kidding? I lost count after round four, buddy. How the hell are you still conscious?”

A noncommittal noise. Matt’s not entirely sure about that himself. “Th’others...?”

“They left. I told them I had this.” Foggy is leaning over to work on loosening his bonds, grunting with effort to unpick the knots in the soft silk rope, which have tightened substantially from all of Matt’s struggling. “Though one of them did say that you were the hottest thing he’s ever laid eyes on and to call him first if we want to do this again. Left his card and everything.” A noise of frustration. “Shit, Matt, how’d you not cut off your circulation?”

“Credit to th’ guy who tied me up.” The response is almost a sing-song. Matt is floating on so many endorphins that he probably qualifies as intoxicated.

“Yeah, he did a good job with these.” More tugging. “It’s also damn good thing the chair’s bolted to the floor -- ah-ha!” Foggy’s noise of triumph is accompanied by the ropes falling slack around his ankles. It only takes a moment more before the ones around his bound wrists do the same. “Otherwise you’d have fallen over and cracked your head open for sure.”

Foggy continues to talk as he fusses, not expecting any real conversation. Matt lets him fuss, sleepy and pliant. In spite of the silk, his wrists and ankles are chafed. He’d vetoed padded cuffs, disliking the thought of anything that couldn’t be cut off of him in a hurry. But it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. For once, nothing hurts.

Foggy was right. They’ve given him exactly what he wanted and the overwhelming peace of it makes him want to cry.

“Hey, Foggy?”

Foggy looks at him and apparently sees something or everything in his face, because he leans over and kisses him softly. “I know, Matt. I know.”


End file.
